


In Which Sherlock Gets a Kitten (Literally), and John has Kittens (Figuratively)

by Slumber



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, John gets jealous of a kitten, John has kittens, Kittens, Sherlock gets a kitten, stray pets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-13
Updated: 2012-03-13
Packaged: 2017-11-01 21:27:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slumber/pseuds/Slumber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>See title?</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Sherlock Gets a Kitten (Literally), and John has Kittens (Figuratively)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Peyton. Idea blatantly-- blatantly-- stolen from Ren, who wrote Charles and Erik and kittens. (Also at Peyton's urging, I believe. Sensing a pattern here...) I have never written Sherlock fic before. :|

In between the case about a lost mum (she's not lost; she's just left. Couldn't you tell by the wine stain on the counter where the kitchen phone was--she took frequent calls, secretive, notice the way the cord's almost unraveled, as though she twirled it around her fingers often--and the missing lingerie--there's a clear space in between the frumpy pajamas and the modest nightgowns in her closet, and a snag of satin red thread on the floor just below it) and a hanged constable (gambling problem with tons of debt, but he didn't take his own life considering the rope marks angled down and not upwards, and there was still a ticket for a game he'd bet on--he clearly hadn't planned on winning or losing either way--clearly it had been his wife, whose own shoes--not the ones she wore during the investigation, mind, but she'd clearly changed them by the indentations of the prior shoe on her feet--had chunks of mud the same color as the one they found in in the constable's route), Sherlock brings home a kitten.

John doesn't notice immediately--there's blog comments to respond to and moderate (Jesus when did his commenters start getting into boats? All they talked about lately was shipping.) and emails to send (sorry, can't do this one, we're fully booked; the 29th you say? Why? How do you know a crime's happening then? Oh, you'll wait? Hang on, let me check again--) and more cases to pre-solve (the term Sherlock used now when he wanted to send John in his place for a few hours before he walks in and finds the conclusion in a matter of seconds (helps them think they're getting their money's worth, I guess, John had said, ignoring Sherlock when he pointed out there was no money changing hands) that he nearly trips over the kitten when it launches itself at him one day after John jolts from his seat with a resounding "EUREKA!" (He'd always wanted to do that, never had before.)

Only that "EUREKA!" of his quickly turned into a strangled scream as kitten and doctor fell in a tangle of war-damaged limbs and soft fluffy grey fur.

"Sherlock," John says, pulling himself back to his arse and frowning. "What is that?"

"It's a kitten, John. I know you've an average mind but surely you can tell."

"Let me rephrase: what's a kitten doing here?"

"Seymour is being a kitten, what else is--"

"You've named it?"

"All things must have names."

"Where did you find it?"

"Its name is Seymour, not 'it'." There must be something about the way John looks right now because then Sherlock sighs. "I was walking down by the bakery and he was there. He looked like he wanted the bread so I got him one. Then he followed me back."

"You took home a stray?"

"You say that like I've never taken home strays before."

"You haven--I WAS NOT A STRAY."

***

Seymour is small, grey, and fluffy, which meant he had the distinct advantage of exuding oodles of cuteness, of "pet me! hug me! love me!" vibes that John can never compete with. Not that he wanted that from Sherlock, and it isn't as though Sherlock ever gave Seymour that sort of affection--sure some days John would walk in and find Sherlock deep in thought, his mind working on thrice the speed of an average man's, turning things around in his head and examining all possible angles, his long slender fingers petting Seymour behind the ears as it curled up in Sherlock's lap--but it did make their animosity rather skewed in the cat's favor.

Because, of course, Seymour dislikes John.

No, take that back--Seymour just doesn't dislike John. He outright _loathes_ him. Every time John walks into a room with Seymour and Sherlock in it, it seems, Seymour's entire body would arch, his claws drawn, otherwise perfectly cute kitten-y face distorted into an ugly hiss, after which he would meow and fuss until John left. 

"Don't be silly," Sherlock tells him, master of noting the obvious as he is. "He doesn't _hate_ you--that's too strong a word and cats aren't capable of an emotion as irrationally human as hatred."

"Oh, John," Mrs Hudson tsks, letting her tea steep as she dries her hands on her apron. "I know it's a little... unnerving, at first, but you can't really be jealous of a kitten."

"I'm not jealous!" John says in reply, but Mrs Hudson only smiles kindly and lets him seethe in his chair. (Meanwhile she's likely off puttering away and petting Seymour, because of course when she tries to, Seymour purrs with ceaseless adoration, the blasted thing.)

"Why do you hate the thing so damn much anyway?" Sally wants to know. She looks at John like she knows why but won't tell him, and he can only roll his eyes and feebly protest that he doesn't, it's actually the other way around. Then Seymour wanders in and curls himself around Sally's ankle; she coos and picks him up and asks John why anyone could ever hate such a sweet kitten.

It doesn't take John long to figure out he can't fight a battle he's destined to lose every single time.

***

Other than the petting, however, most of life at 221B Baker Street remains much the same. John manages to relay details of cases over to Sherlock via text messaging if he doesn't find a good treat to lure Seymour away from Sherlock for five minutes of his time, and they manage to solve a few more cases (two serial killers, one smuggling ring, a kidnapping). He learns to ignore the hissing, remembers to wear longer, thicker clothes indoors in case of 'accidental' scratching, even manages to hold his tongue as everyone else around him seems to fall completely under Seymour's spell.

"Does he still have that kitten?" Lestrade asks him one day while they're wandering around a meadow.

"Does he still have--of course he does, what's he supposed to do with it otherwise?" John toes a rock out of the way, his hands deep in the pockets of his robes. "It's his pet."

"I didn't think--"

"Didn't think what?"

"That he was a cat person," Lestrade says, pausing for a second before he smirks. "He isn't exactly a people person, is he?"

"Well cats aren't people," is all John can think to point out. He frowns. "What are we doing here?"

"What do you mean?"

"On the field. What are we looking for?"

"Didn't he send us out to--"

John whirls around, stalks back to where Sherlock must have slunk off. "What are you doing there?"

Sherlock shushes him, not taking his eyes off the monitor in front of him. "I'm in my mind palace," he says. "Go away."

"You're never in front of a screen when you're--are you talking to _Seymour_? Is he your mind palace now? Sherlock--"

"Go. Away."

***

This is it, John thinks, the end of the line for him. He supposes it's a good thing cats have yet to develop speech; otherwise he's sure his role as sort of the bridge between Sherlock and the rest of the world may very well be in jeopardy.

And even that, he doubts, is a benefit only he continues to provide. Somehow by merely existing, by simply attaching himself to Sherlock's side and purring and doing all sorts of kitten-like things, Seymour is more easily able to placate anyone offended by Sherlock's natural abrasiveness.

"Why are you glaring?"

He looks up from where he's finishing his tea, blinks owlishly. "What? I'm not glaring," he denies, quick to release the viselike grip he's got on his butter knife. Across the room from him, sat in Sherlock's lap, Seymour stares at him with large green eyes. "This is ridiculous."

"It is," Sherlock agrees.

"It's just a pet, I shouldn't--wait, what?"

"You're jealous of a pet, John."

"I am not jealous!" 

Sherlock merely gives him a look. It is remarkably similar to the one Seymour's got, and John purses his lips. 

He's learned to live with Sherlock; he sure as hell can learn to live with his bloody cat as well.


End file.
